


Homecoming

by Flailingkittylover



Series: Gen fics/no ships [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Bertholdt's family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Manga Spoilers, Mentions of Death, Regret, its sad hours guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flailingkittylover/pseuds/Flailingkittylover
Summary: One way or another, no matter how much he does not deserve to step into this place and stand before this person, Armin brings Bertholdt home.
Relationships: Armin Arlert & Bertolt Hoover, Armin Arlert/Bertolt Hoover
Series: Gen fics/no ships [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2141517
Comments: 12
Kudos: 53





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Guidebook said Bert considered Armin a friend...makes me wish there were more interactions with them. :( Lost potential with these two.
> 
> Also, If you are reading this fic on any outlet other than AO3 website; please note that it is there without my permission. This is tantamount to theft.  
> I wrote this for free.

The tips of Armin’s fingers glide along the sewn border of his fedora. His fingertips have careened his hat so quickly and frequently, he’s memorized the stitching of his hat from the back all the way to the front. This hospital smells of over-starched bed sheets, bitter medicine, and a foul odor which inches too close to the smell of defecation. His neck is a wood-stiff mess. His muscles are so coiled tight in his suit, he stands as straight as an ironing board. 

Coming here was a bad idea.

He should _not_ have come here. He _knows_ what could happen if he slips up on one word. 

Armin’s determination is backpedaling. He should have listened to Mikasa and just returned to their hideout right after their reconnaissance with Kiyomi and Levi was completed. But that itch under his skin, that centipede-like crawl which skittered under his neck bugged him enough until he relented, finally accepting he needed to do this. His anvil-weighted conscience will grow in heaviness if he doesn’t. 

“Excuse me, sir?” Armin hardly manages to twist his neck to the side. A nurse, her face broadcasting an elegant amount of makeup and sincere cheerfulness smiles at him. He should feel some warmth from such a pleasant greeting, but he doesn’t, “Mr. Hoover can see you now. He’s awake.”

Armin’s Adam's apple suddenly feels like the size of an actual apple in his throat. He ducks his head as he dons his cap, trying to hide his eyes, “T-Thank you, miss.”

The woman walks away and he walks in. He staggers a bit upon entry. 

The room is pitch-dark. The blinds to the window are closed as is the door to the restroom. All Armin can see is the silhouettes of furniture and a bed amidst the darkness. 

“Whoever is there, the light switch is near the door somewhere,” speaks a gravely, calm voice, “I don’t need it, but I would suggest it for you.”

Armin squints, darts his eyes around the black-fuzz of the room and feels the wall for the light switch. He glides the switch up and takes off his cap, stands before the door while the elderly man adjusts to face him. The young Corpsman knew this fact—it’s why he chose to see this man today—though to see this affliction first hand leaves Armin speechless. 

Mr. Hoover is completely blind, his eyes cloud-grey and sunken just like his cheekbones. But that’s not what scares Armin- what frightens him is how this man is a wrinkled, salt and pepper-haired clone of his son.

“Can’t say I was expecting visitors today,” Mr. Hoover chuckles weakly then coughs afterwards, “Is that you, Karina?”

Armin isn’t quite sure who that is, “No. A-Actually, you don’t know me, sir. I asked the Warrior Unit where you might be. I was a part of the recruits at one time, you see. They had my record on file. But...well. Obviously, I didn’t make the cut.”

“Oh…I see,” The man leans back on his large pillow. He stares at the end of the room, motionless; maybe he’s mentally registering Armin’s words. A small, feeble chuckle quakes the man’s chest, “You didn’t make the cut, but you sought me out. Very interesting indeed...you knew my son then? You knew my Berty-boy?”

Armin blinks. He’s never had a nickname put upon him by his own parents; hearing Bertholdt’s father’s nickname for his son is oddly endearing. Even though Mr. Hoover can’t see him, Armin tries to straighten his spine, steeling himself.

“Yes, sir. I did.” 

A smile so full of intrigue and child-like wonder pulls up the man’s lips, “I see...well come over then, come over. You sound too far away for my liking. Take a seat.”

Hesitantly, Armin accepts the man’s invitation. There are no chairs - possibly because this hospital is overcrowded from the recently won war and every chair is needed for a doctor or supporting an IV drip. The bed sinks at its side when Armin sits down next to Mr. Hoover.

A string of coughs leaves Mr. Hoover and quickly afterward, asks with excitement, “Tell me then, how did you come to know him? Berty was always so quiet and reserved. Though I can understand why. This place...I wish I could have given him more. As I’m sure you’ve experienced, the ghettos don’t provide much safety. It’s easy to become constantly tentative and scared when you grow up with guards watching your every move.”

There’s this palpitation in Armin’s chest, makes him wonder if it’s Bertholdt himself trying to knock against his pecs, to break out his ribcage and say hello to his father, that he’s here and okay. Armin has seen minor bits of Bertholdt’s childhood but never instances when the dangers within the Liberio ghettos aimed their sights at him.

“He wasn’t always tentative, sir. I came here because...” The moistness in Armin’s throat evaporates into a desert. He licks his quivering lips, trying to form words. They don’t come. 

A rumble like thunder quakes in the back of the older man’s throat, “No doubt you had some sympathy for the rumors going around—how the Colossal has likely been lost to the Island Devils. You aren’t the first to come pay your respects.”

Armin’s chest might as well be shattering, “T-That’s not! I-” That _was_ one of the purposes why he’s here but there was something else, another fact his addled brain can’t fetch right now. 

Rather than scorn him, thin and bony shoulders rise and fall from delicate laughter, “You must have been friends with Bertholdt. You sound like you get as tongue-tied as him. It’s refreshing to hear. Cadets and rejects always have this rigidness to their speech, not that I am complaining. You young ones need to be fierce and forceful, especially against this kind of world. But you...you’re like my boy—I can tell. Your presence doesn’t feel commanding and coarse like the others. I almost feel warm around you.”

Armin is at a loss on how to respond. He picks at his fingernails, nervous and scrambling for another subject to talk about.

_“A pitchfork,”_ words sounding far off in the distance resound in his head, _“When you’re looking down the line of sight, you want to see a pitchfork shape between the sight of the gun and the tip of the muzzle. Doing that will help with your aim. A-At least, that’s what I try to imagine when I shoot, anyway…”_

“Actually, s-sir. What I came here to tell you was…” The ball in Armin’s throat hops up and down from his swallowing. He struggles to form words, “I came to tell you that your son...your son helped me a lot back then. And when I found out you were bedridden, I wanted to share with you some things I remembered about him - what Bertholdt and I went through together in the Co-” Armin quickly stops himself, “In the Warrior Program.”

“Is that so?” The older man is so frail yet he scoots up on his bed as excitedly as a child to a present. The sudden glint in dying, cloudy eyes is so clear, Armin retracts a bit from shock, “And here I thought Reiner and Pieck told me all there is to know. What else did Berty do?” 

Armin sucks in a breath, battles to keep his voice level. His laugh escapes with a shudder, “There was uh...there was this time where we all had to shoot targets. I was struggling to not just fire but aim too. The rifle...it was too big for me, you see. And when I finally got it to fit in the dip of my shoulder, the recoil would knock me back. I hardly got two shots in before I gave up. Bertholdt saw me. Whether or not he felt sorry for me, I don’t know...but he showed me how to plant my feet better, how to focus between the sight at the end of the barrel to get a better shot. He spent two hours instructing me on it...and I still performed horribly. But Bertholdt kept trying. He didn’t leave my side until my entire box of bullets was gone. He was the best marksman in the class and he made it look easy, but he still spent time teaching those who weren’t so talented...like me.” 

“Dead-eye Bert,” Mr. Hoover chuckles, “That was what I’d call him to my buddies. I would bet money that my boy could have shaved the nutsack off a gnat if given a rifle and one bullet.”

No matter how strained and clogged he sounds, Armin can’t refrain from laughing. Watching Bertholdt shoot was a sight to be seen. There was so much untapped in him - even Armin could see that - yet in that split second of firing pin clicking, Bertholdt became an unstoppable ace. The taller boy’s smile would tremble but it was heartfelt; he’d approach cautiously, but emanated an aura which was campfire-warm. Armin can’t remember a time when he was ever afraid of Bertholdt...except in that time they confronted each other in Shiganshina. 

“Bertholdt was definitely quiet, but he was always helpful,” Armin continues, “He’d help others study. He was shy about it—but he helped. I probably wouldn’t even hold a gun properly to this day without him. He stood out and he didn’t even know it…”

A high-note of uncertainty rings out from Mr. Hoover, “It’s odd, boy. From the detail of how you’re talking, it’s as if all this happened recently and not over ten years ago. Were you not a child then?” 

Armin can’t answer. What even was he at that age? Was he still a kid during their three years of training? Could he even be considered that after everything they went through? Or has he been a child masquerading around as a soldier? Is he still a child even at this moment? 

He wishes he knew. He wishes Bertholdt or Mikasa or Eren would give him an answer, if _someone_ could give him an answer on why any of this had to happen to all of them. 

The ends of Armin’s eyes smolder, his tears hot as they run down his cheeks. His lower lip wobbles as he stammers out, “I was a child and it _was_ so long ago...but that’s how much of an impact Bertholdt left on me…”

“...now now now,” Tan, wrinkled hands lift up, blindly reaching wherever—he’s looking for him. Against his better judgement, Armin extends out his hand, allowing Bertholdt’s father to grab hold; caramel skin wrinkled by advanced age and disease is trying to comfort _him_ , “Don’t you feel bad for him or for me. My boy...my son could be timid, but he was brave—always brave. No matter what happened to him, I’m proud. He fought with great honor and strength for Marley even before he went to Paradis. I know he did the same when he faced those Devils on Paradis. I can feel it.”

And he did. To this day, Armin’s skin tingles from the hellfire which ran along his limbs, of his innards melting like acid was poured inside him, degrading into liquid bits of any future chance he had of living. Bertholdt was level-headed and terrifying—brave, as his father put it. In a way which could be considered sick and ghastly, he envies Bertholdt in that way—to go through such a transformation in such a short period of time. 

Armin hiccups at what he sees between the man’s hands. The skin of the hand Mr. Hoover holds cracks and blackens. Armin’s fingers fuse together, melted flesh molding and hardening until it’s a black meat-block which can never be revived. Armin’s heart - or Bertholdt’s knocking inside him - slams against his ribs.

Bertholdt should be the one doing this—to be telling his father how he performed against enemies he’s trained for years to fight. Instead, these smaller, more delicate hands hold this old man’s; they are far from the large albeit kind grip Bertholdt once had. The self-mutilated surface of Armin’s soul peels back another layer. 

“To hear that he kept being himself…” his father continues, his voice light, almost like he’s stuck in a dream, “That he helped others even while in such a training regiment...I’m happy. Beyond happy, in fact. That Warrior Program changes every child put through it. So many voices lost all innocence and sense of calm. They almost always got into fights or had problems later in life...” Mr. Hoover lightly clenches Armin’s hand, “I’m a dead man anyway, so I don’t have any fear when I tell you this—I’m glad you weren’t accepted into the program, son. You were fortunate. I hope you know that. My biggest fear for Berty...would be that he would change - change so much...he wouldn’t be my son anymore.”

Armin’s sight is glued on this aged version of Bertholdt; even the old man’s _smile_ is the spitting image of his son’s as is the peace even in sightless, grey eyes. He pats Armin’s jacketed forearm, “Know that.” 

The old man’s grip falls away from Armin. He lays back on his bed, his sunken eyes darting back and forth as he stares into the ceiling. “My boy, so much time has passed, I almost can’t see your face anymore. I wonder if I’m allowed to see you soon. It’s been too long…”

The _tick-tick-tick_ of the clock fills the stillness in the room. There are no more words except Armin’s heavy breathing. With wide eyes and one lone tear dripping off the tip of his nose, Armin stares. Mr. Hoover has been quiet for too long. He turns over the man’s hand, shoves two fingers into the bone and tendon under his wrist.

There’s no pulse. 

Armin leaps up, backs away. He gasps as if he’s first emerged from opening his eyes beneath salt water — his vision is blurry, his eyes burn horribly, and there is never a second when water isn’t dripping down his cheeks. With erratic breathing, Armin turns to leave and call a nurse, but he can’t yet. He forces a leg forward, forces the next to follow until Armin returns to the recently deceased. He has no business being so close to this man, especially not the right. But it’s not for himself who Armin does this for.

Armin takes Mr. Hoover’s hand and holds it between both of his. With every passing second, the young Scout’s grip to this man increases in strength. 

Regardless of whether or not Bertholdt is here, if he can feel this or not, he hopes Bertholdt knows Armin tried, tried to give him some second back to the place he dreamed of returning to—the experience Armin robbed him of: to come back home. 

“I’m sorry…” Armin chokes out, tears dripping off his chin. His shoulders hunch as he bows his head, hoping to be heard from people who can’t hear him, “I’m so _sorry…”_

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted closure for these two in some way. My idea in the story was Bert's memory would be revealed, Armin would have a discussion in him in Paths, or Armin would have a sudden flashback with Bert. 
> 
> Either way, until that moment (hopefully) comes, I wanted Bert's dad to at least get closure like these boys. This story struck a personal chord with me so this became difficult to write at times, but I'm glad it's out there.


End file.
